


Captain Watson, Distraction Specialist

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE PORN?, Anal Play, Bondage, Dom!John, Dom/sub, Frottage, Humiliation, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, but we all knew that came down to sex anyway didn't we?, leather cuffs, orgasm denial (implied), sub!Sherlock, this is how John gets Sherlock to stop destructively occupying himself between cases, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loved it when John took charge; even more so when John’s in-charge-ness led to Sherlock’s cheek pressed to a quickly warming 900 thread-count sheet, his hands pinned together behind his back, and the sweet bliss of his entire universe suddenly becoming centered around John’s cock and whatever it happened to be doing to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain Watson, Distraction Specialist

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go to Mysterious Anon Friend, a-cumberbatch-of-cookies, and surelymeretricious for hilarious commentary and spot-cleaning some of my clunkier phrasings.

 

Sherlock loved it when John took charge; even more so when John’s in-charge-ness led to Sherlock’s cheek pressed to a quickly warming 900 thread-count sheet, his hands pinned together behind his back, and the sweet bliss of his entire universe suddenly becoming centered around John’s cock and whatever it happened to be doing to him. 

John knew all of this about Sherlock, to be sure. Usually he was an attentive, considerate lover: moderate in his demands and entirely focused on Sherlock rather than himself. But he also knew, after coming into the flat after a harrowing day at the surgery to find Sherlock at catastrophic levels of boredom, that sometimes tender and slow was _not_ what Sherlock needed.

All he had to do to begin, really, was clear his throat softly and set the shopping on the few clear spaces of kitchen table and counter that weren’t hosting a jumble of lab-ware. Sherlock, at this point, may have not even noticed his arrival (or, more likely, was pretending not to). But that didn’t bother John. He didn’t need to yell, slam things, or cause a scene to capture his partner’s attention.

He mustered every ounce of Captain Watson at his disposal and crossed his arms over his chest, his face settling easily into its _I-am-not-tolerating-your-antics_ sternness. Sherlock was still mid-rant, flailing about as he expounded on the vagaries of human behaviour (or, it seemed, the lack thereof) and exactly how that related to the world not suiting his need for crime-based stimuli.

“Sherlock.” John spoke quietly, calmly, his tone carved of steel. **  
**

And still Sherlock went on railing about the injustices the universe had seen fit to throw his way--all those brains and no new cases. This did not bother John.

“Sherlock, you are going to stop talking now. You are going to march into our bedroom, and you are not going to make me say it twice.”

This was true--this command was enough to stop Sherlock’s tantrum-fueled tirade so quickly John could almost hear tyres screeching inside his brain. He looked dumbstruck for exactly half a second, before his eyes widened a fraction, the light of discovery illuminating them. Then his features settled into neutral, save for a slight pout of the lower lip, which John knew merely meant that Sherlock’s rant had likely been a particularly scathing and brilliantly worded one. No matter. 

Sherlock complied without another sound, turning on his heel and heading immediately for the stairs that lead to their bedroom. After a week of complaints from Mrs. Hudson when they first became lovers, it had seemed best for all that they take up John’s old room. 

As Sherlock mountedthe stairs,John began putting away the shopping with nonchalance, though he did call over his shoulder in a conversational tone, “Be ready for me.” ** _  
_**

Then John grinned to himself, absolutely certain that by the time he bothered heading upstairs, his commands would be followed perfectly. He forced himself not to rush as he put away the refrigerated foods, not to dwell on his own mountinganticipation as he meticulously stacked the canned goodsin their place on the cabinet shelf. There was something sweet, he knew, about drawing out the tension, and something even sweeter about knowing that as he did so, Sherlock was surely upstairs, making himself as ready as he possibly could.

Done, John was half-tempted to make a pot of tea and draw out his waiting game to torturous new lengths, but his own selfishness got the better of him. He toed off his shoes and lined them up in their customary spot by the door, glad for his dress shirt and trousers from work. It wouldn’t do to pull rank and command when one was dressed in a frumpy sweater and ragged jeans, after all.

He climbed the stairs slowly, near the wall to reduce the creak as his weight bore down on each old board, though he knew Sherlock would be able to hear his approach anyway--if he had decided _not_ to follow John’s directions. But that was a moot point--as he hovered outside their closed door, he could hear Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath, clean and nasal, followed by a slow open-mouthed exhalation that carried the quietest of sighs.In mind’s eye, John could picture the scene awaiting him just as he’d intended: Sherlock naked on their bed, poised on his knees, one hand leisurely palming his erection, the other long-fingered hand trailing up that taut, muscular thigh and around the hip, fingertips tracing a path around to the cleft of his own arse, not yet parting it. 

John closed his eyes, and let out a steadying breath as heat pooled in his groin at the thought. He clenched and unclenched his hands quickly a few times, grounding himself back into his role as Captain, cool and in-charge, before entering their room.

And indeed, Sherlock was positioned just as he had imagined, but the proof before him was so much more than what his mind had offered: Sherlock’s knees were open wide, and the first flush of arousal had bloomed ruddy-pink across Sherlock’s pale chest; he was half hard, palm against the head of his cock as he stroked the shaft with his fingertips in a fashion John was absolutely certain frustrated him in its lack of proper friction and pressure. John’s own body twitched involuntarily in sympathetic desire, but didn’t let it show on his impassive face.

“Is this-- correct?” Sherlock asked, his voice hitching breathily. The corner of his mouth twitched, and John knew how much effort it was taking him to abide by John’s orders.

“It’s a start,” John answered coolly. “Though why I continue to reward you for such immature behaviorur completely baffles me.”

“Because you like it,” Sherlock replied, his tone nothing short of teasing. He smirked cheekily. 

“Hands down,” John replied. “None of your mouth, now.” **  
**

Sherlock huffed impatiently but dropped his hands to the bed and leveled his best _See-how-well-I-can-follow-directions?_ glare.

John raised an eyebrow, lifted his chin in assessment. “Any more smartarse remarks and I’ll have you cleaning the bathroom with your own toothbrush while naked. Am I clear?” ** _  
_**

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped down this information. He nodded.

“I said, ‘ _Am I clear?’_ ” John repeated, a little more forcefully this time.

“Yes, _sir,_ ” Sherlock answered.

“Right, then. I don’t have to distract you by letting you get off _easily_. You remember last time.”

John’s warning had the desired effect, and Sherlock blushed hard as he remembered _just how long_ John had drawn out the scene the last time his mouth had gotten the better of him. John suppressed a grin to see the way the tips of his ears reddened, the way his cock twitched, fully erect now.

“Go get your cuffs.”

Sherlock nodded quickly and added a belated, “Yes, sir,” before rising from the bed and crossing their room to get the moderately-sized trunk from the closet.

John used the distraction as an opportunity to slip off his socks, unbutton his shirt, and kneel on the bed. Sherlock straightened, holding the hard leather cuffs, thick and black and dangling by a steel D-ring from his index finger.

“These, sir?” Sherlock asked, and John suppressed a smile. He knew why Sherlock had grabbed those--when it came to wrist and ankle restraint, he preferred them over the soft-leather cuffs, said he liked the way the corners of the hard leather pressed into his tender skin. ** _  
_**

“I would imagine that would chafe pretty roughly, given what I have in mind,” John answered mildly. This was a new gambit, and he hoped it pleased Sherlock. ** _  
_**

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and lifted out the soft-leather cuffs, light brown and lined with impossibly soft white fur. “These, sir?” he asked, a hint of confusion edging his demure tone.

John smiled indulgently and nodded. “Now, come here,” he said, patting his thigh.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed, and kneeled before John, so that his bared backside was pressed along John’s mostly-clothed front. He shifted so that he somehow managed to match John’s height, and offered the fur-lined cuffs to John. ** _  
_**

John dropped one cuff on the bed and circled his fingers around the other. He leant forward, let his lips brush against Sherlock’s ear. “Now, I want you to fuck my fist--slowly. You move too fast and I’ll stop immediately.”

Sherlock groaned as he realized what John wanted, and slid himself into the cuff lining John’s fist. He rocked slowly into it, feeling the soft glide of the fur along his most sensitive places, a sensation so frustratingly jaw-clenchingly _sweet_ it only took a few strokes before he was trembling, shuddering with the need for more friction, more pressure, more _anything._ Humiliating, too, it was to be watched this way--desperate for more, willing to stroke himself off on a bondage cuff in John’s hand, and the rush of it made Sherlock light-headed. He could feel the full proof of how much John enjoyed it pressing along the cleft of his arse, that fucking zipper just uncomfortable enough to keep Sherlock from pushing back against John too much as he forced himself to comply with this order. 

John allowed himself to pant, a small relief for him and a tiny reward for Sherlock, and he leaned his head back just enough that the force of his breath ghosted across the lobe of Sherlock’s ear, the line of his neck, rather than directly into his ear. It was hard to keep his own hips still as Sherlock pushed himself back and forth, between the cuff and John’s lap. He wanted to squeeze just a bit tighter with his fingers, give Sherlock the friction he was looking for, wanted to wrap his free hand around Sherlock’s waist and pin him in place, and thrust against him until he was moving for the both of them--but no, Sherlock needed him to remain in control. And he was nothing if not patient.

A few near-silent, breathy minutes passed this way, until Sherlock whined, at the end of his tether. “Please! Please sir!"

“What do you want?” John asked him, and he noted that Sherlock had not yet stopped bucking into the cuff. 

John could see Sherlock’s face in profile when he tilted his head just so, and watched as Sherlock forced his eyes open, scanning about wildly as if he could read his innermost desires and needs written on their bedroom walls. “Please--I don’t--I just--”

“You may stop,” John cut him off, aware that at this point Sherlock was just flustered enough to make it difficult for him to choose from the unspoken buffet of options before him. So it came down to John redirecting him, “Lean down, cheek to the sheets. Hands behind your back.”

Sherlock fell silent and did as he was told, and John could sense him relaxing into the comfort of merely following John’s lead. When his hands came up behind his back, John slipped the fur-lined cuff from around his cock and strapped it around one of Sherlock’s wrists. Then John lifted the other cuff from the bed and strapped it around the remaining wrist. Then he slid them ‘round until the D-rings were positioned correctly, and he rose from the bed to pull one last item from the trunk.

The cool, smooth bar and the two small carabiners sat lightly in his palms as he resumed his position behind Sherlock, who still posed patiently. The bar was about eight inches wide, an inch-and-a-half-thick dowel painted black with eye-hook screws inserted at the ends, which provided a link to couple the bar with the cuffs. Once the whole set-up was assembled, John leaned back to admire his handiwork. **_  
_**

“Is that good?” he asked Sherlock, admiring the angle at which Sherlock’s shoulders were bent, the curve of his arm socket wrenched back, the sharp pinch between shoulder blades that pushed Sherlock’s flesh together at the spin into small folds, giving the impression of even an ounce of fluff on the spare, trim body.

“Yes sir,” Sherlock answered, his voice somewhat muffled.

“Don’t go anywhere,” John said, smiling, and rose again to retrieve another item or two from the trunk. He slipped the blindfold over Sherlock’s eyes, securing it snugly in place. Then he leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear again, and whispered, “All right, love. Now you hold still, and you stay silent. If you do well, I’ll let you choose how you get off. If not, well…” He picked up the slim vibrator from the bed and twisted the base, and it began to buzz. “If you don’t follow directions, I’ll hold this against your arse until your balls are blue and I’ll get myself off, and leave you _just like this_ to rut against the sheets.”

Sherlock whimpered now, the fine edge of fear sharpening his arousal, and he knew that John meant it. It had gone much this way the last time Sherlock had mouthed off at him, and he knew how much easier it was to comply. He nodded quickly, aware that even a “Yes sir,” after the command to be silent would be a direct violation of orders.

Noting his approval, John traced the tip of the vibrator down Sherlock’s arm, over the swell of an arse-cheek, and up along the inner line of his thigh, until it brushed against the side of Sherlock’s balls, and though he shivered, he made no voluntary motion, no sound other than the sharp exhalation of breath through parted lips.

“Good, good,” John murmured, and drew the vibrator along Sherlock’s cleft. Sherlock jerked and a sharp, clipped moan escaped his mouth before he pursed his lips together.

But John was quick to prove his point. He snatched the toy away, and left Sherlock bereft for a long minute before he asked, “Now, are we going to do a better job of controlling ourselves?”

A spasmodic nod was his reward, and he relented, resting the vibrator back lengthwise against the line of Sherlock’s arse. Pressing it there, he reached to snag the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand and flipped the cap up with his thumb before drizzling a thin line along the valley between skin and plastic. He twisted the toy a few times, coating skin and plastic in the stuff, until he could feel it slide sufficiently.

“You may move your hips, Sherlock. Just as much as you like, but no noise still.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock pivoted his hips, sliding along the toy with jerking twitches, and the sight of it was too much for John--his forbearance couldn’t withstand the temptation. With his free hand he fumbled with the button and fly of his trousers, shoving them and his pants down roughly to free his own aching cock, and he nudged the shaft of it against Sherlock’s fleshy curves.

“Would you prefer this?” John asked him, his voice gruff with hardly-restrained heat.

Sherlock nodded quickly, snapping his hips even faster, sliding the length of the toy along his cleft with blurring, fervent rhythm.

“Fuck,” John said with a grunt, and tossed the toy to the side, not even bothering to turn it off before lining his own cock into the same position, and by now he was so painfully hard the foreskin had fully retreated, baring the flushed, fleshy glans. Each time his glans drew along the ring of Sherlock’s rectal muscle, bright sparks went off behind John’s closed eyes, electricity jolting from his extremities towards his center, building low in his stomach and tightening in his balls. **  
**

At this rate, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer, and reached around, curling sweat-slick fingers around Sherlock’s neglected cock. “Hold still,” John ordered, and Sherlock complied, though a protesting whine escaped him. At this point John lost all control of his cool, dominant demeanor, and couldn’t care less that Sherlock had just defied a direct order once more.

“Let me hear you,” he urged instead. “Get loud for me--” his voice hitched as he rocked against the cradle of Sherlock’s arse, tugging emphatically on Sherlock’s cock. “I want to hear you scream.”

And by god, the dam that burst in Sherlock’s throat was enough that the neighbors two blocks down probably found out about how much Sherlock appreciated John’s ministrations. His baritone echoed back at them, his face flushed bright red from the pressure of his position, and a fleck of saliva darkened the smooth sheet, a testimony to Sherlock’s complete inability to control his faculties any longer.  It was too much, too much for John. His balls contracted hard and orgasm tore through him, locking down every muscle group in his core as he spilled onto Sherlock’s arse and lower back.

The sensation, hot and wet, catalyzed Sherlock, and he followed closely behind John, his ejaculation so powerful he saw stars behind his closed eyes, a ragged moan torn from his nearly-hoarse throat.

Eventually, they found their breaths again, their heartbeats returned to a normal pace. John forced himself to be alert enough to rise from where he’d slumped over Sherlock, and unhooked the cuffs from the spacer-bar. Sherlock’s arms flopped forward to rest limply at his sides on the bed, and John set the bar aside, carabiners clipped into the eye-hooks, to unstrap the cuffs from his wrists.

“Feeling better?” he asked quietly, and Sherlock made a detached hum of satisfaction.

Cuffs removed, John set them beside the spacer-bar, and reached to the nightstand for a tissue, which he used to clean the lube and semen from Sherlock’s skin. “May as well clean up the mess I made,” he murmured, chuckling softly to himself as he binned the crumpled tissues. Sherlock allowed his body to stretch out, then, and he groaned appreciatively.

“Like a rub-down, now that we’ve got all that out of your system?” John asked, planting a kiss on his temple.

Sherlock nodded lazily. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Captain Watson, Distraction Specialist [DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY EDITION]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/947257) by [chucksauce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce)




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